


Daddy's Little Girl

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 05:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell
Summary: Sansa goes shopping with Petyr.





	Daddy's Little Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alayne_StoneColdFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/gifts).



“Absolutely not.” Petyr Baelish’s voice is kurt and sharp. He sounds like a man out of patience and time, though he is neither. He’d blocked off the entire afternoon to take her shopping. 

Sansa resists the urge to stick her tongue out at him. 

“But, _daddy_ ,” she whines, dragging out the syllables so that the word almost echoes in the private changing lounge they’re ensconced in. “It’s perfect for Myranda’s party.” 

In the mirror, she can see Petyr’s eyes narrow.

“Is the theme of her party _Showgirls?_ Are you going as a Vegas stripper?”   


Sansa rolls her eyes at him. 

“You’re far too old fashioned. This is the _height_  of fashion now!”   


The two piece blush dress is perfect. Bralette top, smooth pencil skirt. It clings to her curves and looks a dream with her auburn hair. Myranda would die of envy when she saw it. 

“Then I’ll be old fashioned,” Petyr says, and motions for her to retreat behind the curtain. “That dress is an abomination.”   


“You’re just jealous,” she says, whirling around to face him. “You know the dress is perfect.”   


“I’m absolutely green with envy,” Petyr deadpans. “I just don’t have the figure for the dress.”   


“And I do!” Sansa wails, realizing she’s dangerously close to stamping her feet and crying. She takes a deep breath to compose herself, but still finds her anger getting the best of her. “You’re upset because you know all the boys will be staring at me and--”  


Petyr holds up one finger to silence her. Coupled with the glare he gives her, the gesture is almost menacing. 

“Is it the attention of the boys you want?” Petyr asks, a silken whisper, as he moves to stand closer to her. His hands close around her shoulders and he spins her back around so that she is once more facing the mirror. “Why didn’t you say so, sweetling?”

He’s standing so close now, she can feel his breath on her cheek, where he leans into her shoulder. Her reflection shows a girl with reddening cheeks, and a man behind her smiling smugly. 

This doesn’t bode well for her. 

With deft fingers, Petyr undoes the clasps of the top and lets it fall to the floor. Sansa’s hands go to fly up to cover her breasts, but Petyr pulls her hands down. 

“Now, now, sweetling,” he says, fingers encircling her wrists like cuffs. “You wanted to show off.” 

She opens her mouth to say no, but Petyr shushes her again. He transfers her two wrists into one hand, and with the other, reaches up and pinches her nipple. 

She hisses, part pain, part pleasure. 

“These are the same color as that wretched garment,” Petyr says, drawing circles with his fingertip around her nipple. “This is what you wanted all the _boys_  to imagine.” 

“N-no,” Sansa stammers out, and bites her lip to stop from yelping when Petyr’s fingers pinch down harder.  
  
“No? Is that any way to address your loving father?” 

“No, Daddy,” Sansa says quickly, relieved when his fingers immediately return to circling gently. Her relief is short-lived.

“But you said,” Petyr hums in her ear, and lowers his head to take a nipple in his mouth, biting down just hard enough to make her squeak. 

“I was wrong,” Sansa says, voice whining again. “I don’t want the dress, Daddy, please, I promise, I’ll be good.” 

Petyr releases her nipple from his mouth, and rests his head on her shoulder, his cheek pressed to her. 

“I’m afraid you’ve already been too naughty for me to believe you’ll be good,” he says. “What’s going to stop you from taking my credit card and coming her and purchasing whatever your heart’s desire is, as you’re so wont to do?” 

“I won’t, Daddy, I swear it. I’ll pick any dress you want,” Sansa says, and Petyr huffs a laugh against her ear. 

“Will you?” He asks, casually, releasing her wrists, and guiding her arms to hang at her sides. He cups both of her breasts and kisses her cheek. For a moment, Sansa breathes again. She can disappear behind the curtain, and strip the skirt off, and clean up the wetness he’s caused quickly--  


Her train of thought is cut off by the feeling of Petyr tugging the side zipper of the skirt down and pulling it off her, leaving her in just a flesh colored thong. 

“Is this what you want all those Vale boys to see at Myranda’s party?” Petyr asks, settling his hands at her waist, his eyes trained on the wet spot growing at the front of the thong in the mirror. “Because I’ll drop you off just like this. Wet spot and all.”   


“No, Daddy! You wouldn’t!” Sansa whimpers, shaking her head so hard her hair whips her face.   


The thought of any other man seeing her like this is mortifying. This view is for Petyr, only. 

“You practically demanded it of me before,” Petyr hums, drawing circles on her stomach, hand dipping lower and lower each time. When his fingers graze the wet spot over her core, she sighs, and relaxes against him.   


“You wanted all of those Vale boys to imagine you dripping wet and wanting, so they could easily slide their pricks into any part of you.”   


“No, no, no,” Sansa says, shaking her head again. “Only you, Daddy. I swear it. I only wanted to stupid dress because I saw the way you looked at me in it when I came out from behind the curtain.”   


Petyr chuckles in her ear. “Is that so? You noticed how my eyes widened?”

“And how your breath caught, and the way you looked me up and down,” Sansa replies eagerly, rubbing herself against him, wishing for his fingers to push the scrap of lace aside and touch her properly.   


“That’s my girl,” Petyr whispers, and steps away from her.   


She’d complain, but in the mirror, she can see him unzipping his pants, and pulling out his cock. She’s pleased to see him hard as ever. 

He comes close behind her again, and pulls the string of her thong to the side. With his hand on the small of her back he bends her slightly and enters her quickly, slapping one hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. 

He has no care for gentleness, this time, slamming the full length of his hardness into her, one hand over her mouth, the other in front of her, rubbing at her clit furiously. It’s up to Sansa to keep them balanced by holding onto the edges of the mirror. 

She comes quickly, and almost immediately Petyr does too. He rarely comes inside her, preferring her face or her breasts, but this time he does. She knows why-- she’ll feel him in her for the rest of the day. 

By the time she’s come back down, Petyr is already neatly put back together and sprawled back over the couch-- the only indication that he’s just fucked her senseless is the smirk on his face. 

“Go try on the blue dress,” he tells her, motioning her toward the curtain, even as his seed runs down her leg. “I so love you in blue.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Sansa says, smiling at his reflection in the mirror.   



End file.
